don't you let me lie here
by Serpa.Sas
Summary: This is what you know; You know how to shoot, how to break a spine, where the knife must land to kill. You know how much pressure your bones can take before they snap and how strong the metal of your arm is. For a long, long time, all you know is pain and death and killing, but now you are remembering. Sequel to 'but I am hell bound'


**Title from the Civil Wars song 'Falling', which is totally my 'Bucky being brainwashed and forced to forget Steve' song.**

**This fic has a slightly less ridiculous traveling history. This has only been written in a tent, a bedroom, a cabin, a living room, and a truck.**

**Big thanks to my sister for putting up with me sending her random bits of this as they were written in an attempt to make her cry.**

**Also, any anachronisms can be blamed on mad scientists**

_._

_Captain America is dead_, they tell you, and you don't believe them. The place where your right arm used to meet your body is hot to the touch, but so is the rest of your body. The infection has spiked a fever, you're too warm but you can't stop shivering. It makes you think of cold nights in Brooklyn, of sitting beside a sickbed counting heartbeats, counting breaths.

Even before he was Captain America, Steve had survived every single illness, every back alley fight and asthma attack. Steve's just too damn stubborn to die, so these men are lying.

They strap you down and clean out the stump where your arm no longer is, scrubbing away the dead flesh and cutting out the infection.

_shut him up, I can't hear myself think_ one of them says, and they shove something in your mouth. Your stump smells like rot, and the gag presses against the back of your throat. You gag, and gag, and gag again until you vomit. The cloth in your mouth blocks it, forces it up your nose and you choke, you can't breath, your throat and nose burn from the acid. You thrash against the restraints and your arm hurts, it hurts so bad but when you look over there isn't an arm _there_ anymore, and you can't breath.

You pass out, and hope you never wake up.

.

You wake up.

You are in a room with no windows. You are on a hard bed. No, a table. A metal table (_name rank number_), and it is cold, and there are men in the room with you. One of them is far too familiar.

(_name, rank, serial number)_

"Did you tell him about his Captain?" Zola says, his little eyes watching you in fascination behind his glasses.

One of the other men shrugs. "He didn't seem to care."

"Hmm. Is that true, _Sargent_?" he says your title like he's telling a joke. "Do you truly not care that your Captain is dead?" You glare at him, but his smile only grows until he's grinning in delight. "Oh! You do not believe us." he turns to one of the other men. "Let us show him the footage."

They drag you to another room, this one with large blank white wall and a film projector in the middle. You are too weak to stand anymore, so they push you into a hard chair. Your invisible arm throbs.

The film is of crying crowds of civilians, solemn soldiers standing at attention. It's a funeral, but there is no coffin.

There is only a memorial, and a statue of Steve- of Captain America.

"Its just a film," your voice sounds like the rasp of your unshaven cheek against Steve's unshaven cheek, but with none of the sweetness because Steve isn't here.

Zola makes a tutting noise. "It is a film, but it is real."

You don't believe him. Steve had tons of films made about him, a lot of them shot on sets and the other ones staged. That's just- it's not real. It can't be real.

It cuts away from the statue, the mourning crowd, to a close up of a familiar face.

"Steve Rogers died a hero, saving New York, his home," Howard Stark says. His eyes are tired, his face more lined than you remember it ever being. "My greatest regret is that we don't have a body to bury today, but I swear I will never give up looking for that plane so we can bring Captain America home."

It cuts back to the memorial, with fewer people now- only the Commandos, the Colonel, and Agent Carter.

Peggy is crying.

And then suddenly, you know. They aren't lying. Steve is dead. Steve is gone. Steve-

You fall out of the chair and when the men try and pick you back up, you thrash out at them. Your invisible arm isn't any use to you, but you try to use it anyways. Someone is sobbing, screaming sobs, (_it is you)_ and the men are yelling, and the bandages that are covering where your arm should meet your body are turning red, a slowly spreading stain.

Zola is laughing as you are restrained and another cloth is shoved into your mouth. "You understand, then? That he is dead?" he grins. "We can start, then."

That's the first time they break you.

It's not the last.

.

_Where are you from_? They ask. _Brooklyn_, you tell them. They beat you until you pass out.

_Where are you from_? They ask. _Brooklyn_, you tell them. They strap you to Zola's new table and he experiments on you, wide awake.

_Where are you from_? They ask. _New York_, you tell them. They electrocute you until the room smells of burning flesh.

_Where are you from_? They ask. _America_, you tell them. They put you in a chair, a machine that wraps around your head like a vice, wraps around it and when they turn it on goes _in_ it, and when they let you out you are empty.

_Where are you from_? They ask. You do not have an answer.

They smile.

.

They replace your invisible arm with a metal one. It's lighter than that much metal should be, but still much heavier than your flesh arm. It pulls you down to one side, tears at the skin around where it joins your body. When you try to use it, it pulls the muscles, and the bones in your torso threaten to snap.

You lie on the metal table while Zola and other men in white coats stand above you and discuss what to do next.

_Reinforce the bones? _One man suggests.

_Perhaps more enhancements should be done, _another says.

Zola nods, and considers, and experiments.

When they finally figure out how to make the arm functional, you kill the first person whose neck you can grab. The spine snaps like a dried twig under your metal fingers. You mean to kill everyone you can, to terrify them, but Zola only grins at his handiwork and you freeze, just long enough for them to restrain you.

You realize you are a living weapon, now. For the given value of living, anyways.

.

They give you a gun and bring in a man. _Kill him_, they tell you. _Why_? you ask. They take the gun and shoot the man, and send you back to the chair.

They give you a gun and bring in a man. _Kill him_, they tell you. You do not ask why. The man cries and begs, and you shoot him between the eyes.

They give you a gun and bring in a woman. _Kill her_, they tell you. _Why_? you ask. They take the gun and shoot the woman, and send you back to the chair.

They give you a gun and bring in a woman. _Kill her_, they tell you. You do not ask why. The woman cries and begs, and you shoot her in the heart.

They give you a gun and bring in a child. _Kill him_, they tell you. _Why_? you ask. They take the gun and shoot the boy, and send you back to the chair.

They give you a gun and bring in a child. _Kill him_, they tell you. You do not ask why. The boy cries, and you hesitate. He is just a child. But then you remember the chair, and you shoot him in the head.

They only beat you, this time. _To hesitate is to die_, they tell you between blows. _Never hesitate_.

They give you a gun and bring in a child. _Kill her_, they tell you. You do not ask why, and you do not hesitate. You shoot her in the head.

.

They take your memories like birds pulling worms from the earth; they remove the faces and names of your victims and your handlers, they erase the locations you were sent to, but they let you keep the memory of the actual killing, the way the targets begged or how they looked through the scope of your rifle when your bullet broke skin. They let you keep the memory of pain, from injuries sustained in the field or their punishments.

You can't remember who any of the people in the room are, but you remember what they'll do if you don't play your part.

They wake you, they wipe you, you kill, they freeze you. They wake you, they wipe you, you kill, they freeze you. They wake you, they wipe you, you kill, they freeze you.

They wake you, they wipe you, you kill-

There's another mission.

.

You fail the mission, and _you don't care_. They will hurt you for the failure but you don't care, can't care, because your target (_Steven Rogers_, the file had said, _Captain America_, but in your mind he is instinctively _Steve_) had looked at your face and frozen, asked _Bucky_? And you had hesitated. Hesitation was death, was something you would be punished for (_you do not have the right to put yourself at unnecessary risk- you are the property of Hydra, and only they are allowed to harm you without consequence_).

The man's words, his expression, the way he had stopped fighting- it circles through your mind as you are retrieved, brought back to the vault, stripped of your armour and pushed into the chair. It is loud in your head, so much louder than you are used to. You are not allowed to think of anything other than the mission, where thoughts are as organized as the attack plans, sharp as your knife, silent as your shadow. Thinking of the man makes your mind loud and messy, like a large crowd after a gunshot. Perhaps that is why your thoughts stray to something else.

The man who repaired your (fake) arm collides with the wall after you throw him, and at the same moment he makes the heavy _thump_, the realization comes to you: _you knew him_. You knew the man on the bridge.

You shouldn't have said anything; you knew they would only take it from you. But you are not allowed to keep secrets.

They wipe you, and it's time for your next target.

.

The sky is falling.

All around you is shattering glass and creaking metal as the helicarrier is hit by redirected missiles. Its all distant to you. The world is silent except for those words echoing in your head. _I'm with you 'til the end of the line_. They repeat and repeat as you watch the speaker fall down, down, down to the water.

This is not how this goes, your mind insists. It's backwards, you're sure of it. You should be the one falling, and the man (Steve, Steve, _Steve_, your mind whispers) should be above, watching helplessly.

But you are not helpless. You jump after him.

.

You're going to leave DC. Part of you says to get out of America, to never stop moving from big city to big city, hiding in places where you can become just one more face in a crowd.

But that part (that intelligent, _logical_ part of you) is drowned out by the part that wants to go to New York. To Brooklyn. You do no know why it is important to you. Maybe you went there on a mission once? It doesn't matter why, in the end. You're going to New York.

It takes a couple days to visit the safe-houses and Hydra bases in the city, clearing out any weapons and other resources left. Many of them have already been raided by the Hydra agents who are left free and alive after the failure of the helicarriers. Their names and faces have all been posted online, revealed their real affiliations, and they are running. You know there are bases and agents that would not have been in the SHIELD files leaked, and those who escape DC will be running to them. Hydra is not dead. Not yet.

You run into a couple of them. Most of them die quickly. A couple you recognize- they die quickly as well, but not as painlessly.

After the third one who dies with a scream of pain, you realize something is wrong. You shouldn't be recognizing these people. Your memories should be full of faceless, nameless people. Instead, you remember-

you remember.

And its terrifying.

.

This is what you know;

You know how to shoot, how to break a spine, where the knife must land to kill. You know how much pressure your bones can take before they snap and how strong the metal of your arm is. You know to accept the mouth guard when they put you in the chair and you know, deep in your bones, the cold of cyrofreeze. For a long, long time, all you know is pain and death and killing, but now you are remembering.

You remember a boy- no, two boys, one small and golden, one also small and dark haired. You remember Brooklyn alleyways and winter illnesses. You remember the dark haired boy growing big while the golden one stayed small. You remember a war, and no one being small anymore, and falling falling falling.

There's more to be remembered, but for now, you have this; you remember that you had a life. You were a person. You know this like you know killing and pain, destruction and death.

You know this as surely as Captain America knew you, and just as surely as you know him.

You know him.

.

Standing in the air conditioned exhibit hall, surrounded by children and parents, teenagers and teachers and Captain America enthusiasts, you stare at your own face.

You don't remember ever being the man the gallery calls a hero, and when you watch the films you do not recognize the smile that turns Bucky Barnes' lips upward. But just as the Captain (_Steve_) recognized you within seconds, you can catalogue the identical features. The highest grade facial recognition software wouldn't say you were different people.

You are Bucky Barnes, or you were once. The jury is still out on what you are now.

The thing is, though- you are _someone_. You were once, and you will be again.

.

Remembering is like suddenly discovering birthmarks on your skin- they were there, they've always been there, but you've only just payed enough attention to _notice_ them now.

Its not even remembering, exactly- there is no sudden burst of knowledge, no moment of realization. You don't know remember colour of your father's hair, the way your mother smelled when she hugged you, you blink, and when you open your eyes, you know.

New knowledge comes every day. The emotions come slower. You remember your sister's face weeks before you remember what it felt like when you told her you were going off to war (she was the only one you told about the draft- you were too guilty to tell Steve, your parents couldn't live with you being forced to go off to die, and everyone else- well, you didn't trust them to keep their mouths shut). You remember Zola before you remember the sharp fear of being strapped down to his table. You remember living in Brooklyn before you remember how it felt to walk down the alleys looking for a skinny blonde boy, or how the sound of coughing mixed with the ever present noise of New York and the creaking pipes of your old apartment made worry sit in your own throat until you wanted to cough as well.

You know Steve Rogers before you remember him, and maybe that's why you consider the snapshots you have of him, memories scattered over the years of your life, remembering. If you did not know Steve Rogers, maybe you would put the memories of the blond boy together as nothing but a recurring theme in the story of Bucky Barnes (a story which is being read to you in random chunks of text with no order, no rhyme or reason).

But you do know Steve, and Steve knows you. So when you stop running long enough for him to catch up to you, and he asks, "Bucky?" you nod. He takes a step forward. "Do you- do you remember?"

You tell him, "Some things. I remember you."

Steve smiles at you for the first time since... a time you don't yet remember, the 40's, probably, and it is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

.

"Sam Wilson. It's nice to meet you, y'know, officially."

The man is a soldier, dark skinned, strong, and he has wings. You broke those wings, you remember, ripped them from his back and sent him crashing to the ground. But he smiles at you kindly, and you have gotten very good at seeing the darkness people hide behind kind faces- there is none here.

"Wilson. You already know who I am."

He tilts his head. "I do. I know you by a couple different names. I'd like you to tell me which one you've chose to use."

You pause for a moment before telling him, "I always hated being called James," because that was something you remembered and you don't think you can tell anyone to call you Bucky. Its been too long since you were allowed a name.

Sam seems to know what you're doing, though, and just says, "So, Bucky? Barnes? Or something else?"

It takes a too long moment for you to will the words out of your mouth, past your lips and into the air where they become real. "Call me Bucky."

Sam grins, open and bright, and no one appears to strap you to a chair, to beat you, to freeze you. You smile back.

.

"Hydra isn't dead," you warn them.

Sam sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Lemme guess, they grew some more heads?"

"Y'know, Hercules killed the hydra. It wasn't invincible. But he didn't do it alone. He needed help." Steve points out.

You catch his eye, and it's just like old time, entire conversations passed through glances. "Help, and fire."


End file.
